Days In The Life Of A Gear
by VelvetOblivion
Summary: Glimpses into the life of a Gear of the Klok. Mainly OFCs, though mentions of Dethklok abound. Rated for language, violence, and adult situations. Rating bumped up to cover!
1. On A Salvage Dive

I was watching the preview for "Motherklok", and it made me both wonder what happened during the timeskip and just why nobody apparently went in search for the sunken pre-orders. Given that it's Dethklok's latest album and the in-universe fanbase are nuttier than fruitcakes, wouldn't someone have at least tried to find them?

This ficlet was born from those thoughts, and is my interpretation of them.

Originally posted at GearDQ (linked on my profile). I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 (who I portray weekly on the aforementioned site), #472369, #16372, and #4879234 are my own creations.

* * *

#476 peeled back her hood, gently rubbing sunscreen onto her normally-pale, now-well on its way to bright red face. She and her team had been shipbound for over a month, as they combed the ocean area they had been assigned for the missing album shipments. So far, they had turned up nothing. She dropped the hood back over her features, leaning over the side of the ship as one of her subordinates, #472369, came up out of the water. "Find anything?" She called. "The Commander's going to have our hides for uniforms if we turn up nothing again." "It's the damnedest thing, ma'am." #472369 replied. "They should be here, but we've scoured the entire area we were assigned. There's nothing." "Damnit." #476 sighed, one hand over her eyes. "Come on up, we'll trade places." "Yes ma'am."

Ten minutes later, #476, clad in scuba gear, descended into the water. _There is no way those boxes can't be here. _She thought to herself as she continued her downward descent. _This is definitely one of the places the whirlpools popped up. _She had enjoyed the aquatic scenery her first day of the dive. Now it was just work. As her feet touched the bottom, she saw the same familiar sight she'd been seeing for weeks: the hull of the shipping vessel that had been confirmed to have been sunk by the whirlpool. There was a large hole in one side, one that she had seen many times. She had compared notes with the other salvage overseers, and each ship they had found had the exact same kind of hole in the side: one that didn't look like it had been made by the ship sinking. In some cases, the hole was too clean. In others, like this one, it looked like it had been punched clean through by something large. They had observed drag marks at least once, though that trail had gone cold quickly. She swam inside, resting her hand on a rail. All that was left here were bones._ Rest in peace_.

The journey back up was uneventful. "Anything?" She heard #472369 call. "Nothing. As usual. Send #16372 and #4879234 down, we need to check every inch of the area. Again." She swung herself up onto the ladder, hauling her dripping body back onto the ship. Peeling the scuba gear off piece by piece, she left the ship's deck for the communications room. She sat down at the computer, accessing the records left by the other salvage overseers (all bad news, she noted) before entering her own. **Salvage effort #5, Overseer #476 reporting. Returned from the wreck minutes ago. Fish-eaten graveyard. Am sure Master Nathan will like that as a song title. **She chuckled, then continued typing. **No sign of the drag marks we observed several weeks back, nor of the shipment. As I have reported prior, we followed the marks as far as they went with no results. Subordinates #16372 and #4879234 on dive now. Will report in if they find anything, though I have my doubts that they will. Whatever punched that hole in the ship and dragged off the shipment apparently has quite the hiding place. **She saved her record of that dive, then slipped her hood over her head and left, awaiting the further bad news she was sure her subordinates would return with.


	2. Execution

Another ficlet. No definite timeframe as to where this one takes place. Originally based off an accompanying GearDQ-based storyline, though it could easily be another standalone incident. I'm quite sure there are plenty of them.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I solely own #476. #416 and #1000 are characters created by friends of mine, and are also GearDQ-played.

* * *

Do unto others, and don't fuck with Dethklok. That was the rule. #476 was reminded of it every day. She was reminded of it as she calmly assembled the sniper rifle she had been assigned for the mission. Looking up from adjusting the scope, she met the eyes of her fellow Gear, #416. Neither woman said anything. Nothing needed to be said. They had been assigned this mission directly from the Commander himself. Failure was not an option. #476 turned back to her work, as did #416. Bent over the weapon, #476 gave it a final check, gloved hands making sure the silencer was affixed. It would not completely silence the weapon, but it would delay the sound, giving them time to get away. She peered out of the balcony alcove they had stowed away in. The trial would begin shortly, and their target would arrive.

This was not normally #476's way of execution. She preferred up close and personal, slow and painful. Her beloved cattle prod, Tallulah, and her knives were generally all she needed. She knew #416 was of like mind, having heard her ideas of skinning their target alive with a smile, even as they had been assigned their weapons. This, however, needed to be done by the book. Their target had been identified as a known Revengencer, responsible for the near-death of their Commander and of their fellow Gear and friend, #1000, and for a break-in at Mordhaus that had resulted in the death of a valuable prisoner. Though the Commander had initially decided to trust in the Italian government to judge their countryman, he had assigned them both to make the decision for them. This suited #476 just fine. In her mind, vengeance had to be taken. The target had to die.

Peering over the balcony once again, #476 saw the magistrates assemble. She silently counted down as the courtroom doors swung open. As their target entered, she leaned over the gun once more, her partner doing the same. "Three." She breathed the number, watching as the target imperiously strode across the wooden floor, oozing confidence that his high position in their government would get him released. "Two." He passed the barrier between the courtroom floor and the empty spectator seats. "One." He had reached his seat. Both Gears pulled the trigger at the same time, each firing a shot at their target. One caught him in the chest, the other in the head. As blood splattered across the wooden table and the ivory cheek of the pretty lawyer assigned to defend the hapless target, both women placed their rifles on the floor, then reached into their pockets and dropped identical pieces of cloth next to them. Klokateer hoods. The Commander had ordered that there be no doubt who had taken justice into their own hands, and that they would never be implicated. After all, the Gears were the faceless masses that served Dethklok faithfully. None of them could ever be singled out when they were part of the whole. As quietly as they had arrived, the two Gears were gone.

Do unto others, and don't fuck with Dethklok. That was the rule.


	3. Ritual

Takes place before Execution and is an earlier part of the storyline mentioned within, though both could easily be a stand-alone incident taking place any time. Modified and slightly expanded from its original GearDQ incarnation.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476.

* * *

#476 softly cursed under her breath as she strode down the hallway. Almost as soon as she'd left the room where the party had taken place, she'd contacted several of the Klokateers assigned to her and dispatched them to transport the Commander's presents to his office. She didn't have to remind them to be careful, as she already knew they would be. They were her grunts, the ones who transported the lamp shipments when they arrived. They were trained not to let a single thing drop, or else they would feel Tallulah's wrath.

She stepped into her quarters, stopping for a moment in front of the small mirror she'd hung on one wall. Removing her hood, she studied her reflection for that moment, then sighed and put it back on. She busied herself gathering together things for a shower, then made the walk to the female side of the Klokateer showers. Stripped bare, she stood under the hot water, her eyes closed. Though it was futile to even try to drown her anger, the feel of rhythmic drops pelting her naked body was almost soothing. Instead of letting it dominate her, she could focus it into a weapon.

Now refreshed and changed into a fresh uniform, she stopped at her quarters again, then made her way to the gym. This was her ritual. As she stretched, her mind rehashed the events that had happened earlier. She didn't know if it was a Gear run backward or a plant, but someone did not want them to know just who had ordered the deaths of her comrades and the near-death of one of the people dearest to her. She completed her stretches, then proceeded to the punching bag.

Whoever had taken the life of their lead, and indeed whoever had ordered it, had hell to pay. Each bare-handed strike against the bag, thrown as hard as she could, reinforced that thought. Her knuckles were split and bleeding when she finally finished. The pain was strangely comforting, as it was every time. She bandaged her hands, as she had many times before, then found a bench to sit on, burying her face in her palms. She felt like she wanted to cry, yet she couldn't. It was unbecoming of a Gear to show weakness, especially her. She had to be the strong one. Silently, she swore vengeance.

Do unto others, and don't fuck with Dethklok. That was the rule, and she intended to make them learn it.


	4. Scream Activated Lamps?

No specific time in mind, though it definitely takes place after Renovationklok. One of #476's assigned jobs is the upkeep and procurement of the various lamps and light sources in Mordhaus, and this is one such incident that involves that duty. Modified and expanded from its original GearDQ incarnation.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476 and can lay claim to #8503.

* * *

#476 hummed softly to herself as she moved down the hall. It was a trip she'd taken several times for various purposes, mostly lamp-related. Today, her expertise had been requested to deactivate certain changes her masters had made to the Commander's office during his absence. She remembered the tone of his voice as he had given her that order. He'd sounded quite frazzled after that little discovery, and he'd pinched the bridge of his nose as he'd described it, as if even the memory tired him. She knocked softly on the door as a courtesy, then hearing no response, slipped inside.

The office was deserted. That would make it a little easier, at least. Soft footsteps brought her to her target - the lamp, a very expensive Tiffany model she had procured sometime in the last year. She was sure she still had notes on it, but she had left her clipboard behind. She removed her hood, placing it in her belt. She could see better without it, and she would need her sight for this. The gloved fingertips of one hand gently ran up the curved surface, her eyes checking for tampering. She hadn't completely grasped the concept of this "scream-activated lighting" her masters were obsessed with lately, so she silently took a breath and voiced a fairly audible shriek.

As the room seemed to explode in colored light, she swore. This would be more trouble than just one lamp. "Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Fucking goddamn bloody hell!" Each word, loud and venomously spat, just made the lights shine brighter. Finally, completely blinded by the flashing lights, she bit her tongue and laid her gloved hands on the desk, bending down to completely hide her face against the smooth wooden surface and squeeze her eyes shut. _I swear to all that is unholy that I'll somehow get back at them for this._ She silently swore to herself, as she watched colors dance across the insides of her eyelids. _I am going to be elbow deep in wiring for days!_ She had been specifically barred from indulging any homicidal urges, but she could easily enlist some of the other Gears in creatively returning the favor. She would need to ask permission first, however.

Once the lights had faded to normal, she quietly left the room so they would not go off again. Outside, she leaned against the closed door and keyed up the comm that all Gears wore. She waited a moment until she heard the line pick up. "Sir?" "Yes, #476?" "The lighting is going to take more than a few minutes to fix." "I expected that, #476. I trust that you will be able to fix it." "Yes, Sir. I will not disappoint." "Good." "Sir?" "Yes, #476?" "May I have permission to...get back at the masters for this?" She heard him chuckle. Privately, she treasured it. There hadn't been much to laugh about lately. "Granted. You know the rules, #476." "Yes, Sir. No injury, nothing permanent. Cilantro is not to be used, nor are the yardwolves. And I am not allowed to run Master Pickles' underwear up the courtyard flagpole again after what #8503 has termed the "Salute Your Shorts" incident." "Indeed, #476. You will be required to fix the lighting, first." "Of course, Sir. Work before revenge. I will proceed now." "Inform me when you are finished." She heard the click in her ear as the line hung up, and smiled an evil smile as she proceeded back into the room. She would gather the Gears closest to her later, after she fixed the lighting. They would love to help, she knew. Then the fun would begin.


	5. Red Blonde And Blue

Inspired by talk of the Avengers movie. The idea of Pickles mancrushing on Thor amused me a lot, so this was the result. Enjoy! (Edited 5/28/13 because I screwed something up)

As always, I do not own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476.

"I swear, if we don't find another chat server soon..." #476 muttered to herself, fingers furiously typing. She'd been dealing with unhelpful people who called themselves technical support for the past couple hours, and what she was trying to do still wasn't working. She threw her hands up in the air, a scream of pure animal rage erupting from her lips. "This can go fuck itself for a while." She exited from the chat, logging onto the main Dethklok server. A message board had been set up by Gears long since gone, and in her free time she liked to hang out on there. She idly started looking for posts regarding problems with the chat server, when a topic titled 'When did this show up?' caught her eye. She read quickly, shaking her head. "Fanfiction on the main server?" She shook her head, but went to look anyway.

"Red Blonde and Blue..." She read to herself, once she found the fanfiction in question. "How did you get onto this server, eh?" She moused to the delete button, but stopped. "Hmm." She wasn't one to pass up fanfiction, even fanfiction that mysteriously appeared where it shouldn't be. "I'll give you a chance." She lowered the mouse pointer, then started to read. Over the next several minutes, she alternated between laughing, facepalming, and at some points staring incredulously at the screen. The whole time, her mind worked as she tried to figure out who had decided this had to be put up where everyone could see it. _Wait... _She paused, reading the sequence again. "With Loki vanquished, Thor returned to the side of the hot redhead who had swooned at the sight of his bulging muscles and Asgardian manliness, who now revived and said in a distinct Wisconsin accent, "Ooh yer soooo hat!"." She slapped a hand over her eyes, laughing as she did so. "Gotta be kidding me!" She now had an idea who had mistakingly put it up on a public server, and she knew he would deny it up and down.

So she attached it to an email and sent it to the very people she knew would love to read it. Minutes later, she cocked her head, hearing both laughter and a yell of "I DID NAT WRITE THAT!", and smirked. _Next time watch where you post your mancrush fanfics, Master Pickles._ She thought to herself as she deleted the original off the server.


	6. Safe

Takes place after Ritual and Execution. This time, it's the opening line, which sounded cool in my head, that was the kicker.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I own #476. #416 is owned by a friend of mine.

* * *

_I am a Gear in the wheel of the Klok. I fear not my mortality...but I will make them fear theirs._ #476 thought to herself as she proceeded down the hallway. She had spoken those words earlier, upon receiving information that, although she and #416 had successfully assassinated the Revengencer senator, the threat was not over yet. Whoever had broken into Mordhaus was still out there, as well as the remains of the group itself. Beneath her hood, she smirked to herself. She welcomed the threat. _Let them come._ She flexed her gloved fingers as she walked. Her footsteps took her past her quarters, down that old familiar hallway to the gym. There, she shed hood and gloves, stretching to warm herself up before proceeding to the punching bag. "Hello, old friend. I missed you." She commented. The trip back from Italy had been uneventful, but the assassination itself had sent a thrill through her that hadn't completely died off with the miles.

She threw a punch at the bag, a simple straight jab with her right fist. It wasn't the hardest she could throw a punch, she knew, but she wasn't going for that this time. She didn't have any rage to work off. This was just a simple reunion with an old friend. She worked herself into a good sweat, channeling the remains of her leftover adrenaline, then stepped back, breathing hard. Weariness had settled into her bones, just as she had intended it to. She glanced at her knuckles, red and sore, the scars that ran across each where she had torn the skin open so many times standing white against a livid background. None were reopened. She yawned, stretching her arms above her head, then collected her gloves and hood, slipping them back on.

She showered quickly to remove the sweat from her body, then returned to her quarters. The snores of her fellow Gears told her how late it was. She found her way to her bed, slipping into it and quickly falling asleep, adding her own notes to the nocturnal music. For now, they were all safe, and that was all that mattered to her.


	7. Terror Bunnies?

The plot bunnies are breeding and wandering the halls of Mordhaus. Just a cute fluff piece that amused me.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476, and can lay temporary claim to #258437.

* * *

It was #476's turn to walk the hallways in her assigned sector of Mordhaus. The halls were quiet, a fact that wasn't lost on her as the sound of her booted footsteps echoed off the walls. The normal Gear traffic had died off hours ago. Truthfully, she liked this duty. It gave her time to think. She was on one such mental jaunt, the subject being ways to disable the scream-activated lighting without having to spend hours elbow-deep in wiring, when her boot brushed against something soft. She stopped dead in her tracks, then looked down. "A bunny." Reaching down, she scooped it up. "Whatcha doin' here, little fella?" She murmured to it as she cradled it in her arms. "You really shouldn't be out." Though #476 wouldn't admit to it, she had a weakness for animals, and often helped to tend Master Toki's rather large amount of pets. Escapees weren't uncommon, though one so far away from where the cages were kept was. Idly petting the bunny now curled up at her left elbow, she continued her walk. She would return this little one once her shift was over. It was minutes later that she once again stopped, only this time her eyes widened underneath her hood.

"Crap." This was directed towards the hallway in front in her. "It's happening again." Fuzzballs similar to the one in her arms dotted the wide expanse in front of her. Immediately, the arm not cradling the bunny she held flicked up, and she dialed the comm she always wore to patch into that sector's intercom. As she spoke, her voice boomed over the speakers. "ALL AVAILABLE GEARS IN SECTOR E PROCEED TO HALLWAY 4! I REPEAT, ALL AVAILABLE GEARS IN SECTOR E PROCEED TO HALLWAY 4! MASTER TOKI'S BUNNIES HAVE ESCAPED AGAIN!" She tuned out, shaking her head. "I hate breeding season." She muttered to herself as she did, her hand having returned to petting the now-sleeping bunny that nuzzled against her chest. When the Gears arrived, she gave them quick directions to capture them all alive. Master Toki did not like his pets harmed, and neither did she. As she oversaw the efforts to recapture the escapees, another thought occurred to her. _A bunny army._ She chuckled, waving off #258437's attempt to take her new fuzzy friend as she did so. _The Revengencers will run in fear when the terror bunnies take the field!_ Her chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh, one which earned her more than a few looks from other Gears, who were no doubt wondering if #476 had finally lost it.

As quickly as they had come, the Gears left, each carrying several bunnies to return to the pens. This left #476 and the last escapee. "Come on, little one, let's get you back too." She set off in the direction of the pens herself, scratching the bunny behind the ears. "A bunny army indeed. You're too cute for that."


	8. Initiation

Based off an amusing idea of the Gears having elaborate initiation rituals. Contains a very slight dash of #476/Pickles.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476 and temporarily claim #999098 and #192.

* * *

"Now, to complete the initiation, you have to get a glimpse of Master Pickles in his underwear, and you have to return with photographic proof." #476 looked out from beneath her hood, down at the shorter #999098. "Really?" "Really. And it shouldn't be too hard to do. He's usually running around in his underwear every night. But he startles really easily, so you have to sneak up on him." She knew full well that was bullshit, that he'd gladly show off, even do the Risky Business dance if asked. Beneath her hood, she smiled fondly. She still remembered the first time she'd seen THAT. Her thoughts cast back to before that, to when she had completed her own initiation. It felt like a lifetime ago, but she still remembered. She smiled again, that same fond smile.

* * *

"Now, to complete the initiation, you have to get a glimpse of Master Pickles in his underwear, and you have to return with photographic proof." #192 had told #476 the week after she had received her brand. Over the past week, she had been subjected to the list of Klokateer initiation rituals and had passed all but the last. She had walked blindfolded among the yardwolves at feeding time (and had endured several good bites as a result), she had taste-tested the latest of Jean-Pierre's edible oddities (not poisonous, fortunately for her), and she had climbed to the very highest rooftop of Mordhaus, among other strange, amusing, and near-fatal tasks set for her. "Really?" She had asked. "Really. And it shouldn't be too hard to do. He's usually running around in his underwear every night. But he startles really easily, so you have to sneak up on him." Like a newly-minted idiot, she had believed him. Now she peered around a corner, following the sound of drunken, accented, slightly off-key singing. Something about rock n' roll french fries. She had absolutely no idea what those were.

She pressed her back to the wall, slipping down the hallway, coming closer to her target. As she did, the singing grew louder, having by now turned into nonsense syllables all strung together weirdly. "Ding dong doodily...doo...doo ding doo doo..." She shook her head, a smirk pulling at unseen lips. She peered around the next corner, and there he was. In his underpants. She drew out her issued cameraphone and snapped a picture. "EYYYYYYYY!" _CRAP!_ She'd been seen! "WAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!" Though she tried to will herself forward, she had also responded to what she interpreted as a command. _Damnit. I am so going to get in trouble for this..._ "Ain'tcha one of th' new Gears?" She turned around, thankful her hood was down. "Yes, Master." Just as she had been taught. _So damn close...keep up the pretense..._ "Where ya goin'?" "I am on guard duty, Master. This is my watch." "...'K then." And just like that, he wandered away. #476 stood frozen to the spot, just watching as he wandered off down the hallway. Her face was very warm. She turned and ran, in case he decided to come back.

* * *

"...#476? Is that it?" #999098's voice returned her to the present, and she nodded absently. "Yep, that's it. Go on now." She waved one gloved hand, watching the smaller Gear run off. Once he was gone, she flipped open her phone. A few clicks of the buttons and it showed a single picture: Pickles, in his underwear, in the middle of a barely-lit hallway. _Where it all began._ She smiled to herself and flipped the phone shut.


	9. Damn Your Eyes

Bit more than a drabble. #476 likes karaoke...and other things, which are causing her more than a little stress/heartache. One-sided #476/Pickles.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine. #765 and #98078 are claimed for the purposes of this fic. Lyrics featured are from Alex Clare's "Damn Your Eyes". I don't own that either, and am not making any profit off its inclusion.

* * *

#476 stood in front of a mirror, one hand carefully applying the last bit of black lipstick that she would need. She was so used to seeing herself in full Klokateer uniform that being back in civilian gear was a bit of a novelty. The mirror, as well as the black leather she wore that seemed to cling to her as if it was a second skin, showed off exactly what years of focused training had done to her. She would never be as skinny as some of the female Gears that had come through the Haus. Genetics had seen to that. Instead, the former fat kid who'd signed up to give her life a bit of meaning had become what could only be defined as buxom. She was proud of it, that she was every bit as strong as her brothers of the Gear.

They did this every so often, whenever nights off coincided. A bunch of Gears would get together and go out. Several of them would be unfit for duty the next morning, of course. Not her. She knew her limits. She knew what happened when she exceeded them. A look of doubt crossed her face, disappearing as quickly as it came. _Useless. It's just useless._ She put it out of her mind as she pursed her lips, making sure the lipstick covered perfectly. She ran a hand through her chestnut locks, mussing them attractively, before leaving the quarters she shared with several others.

"So where we headed?" She yelled as she joined a group of similarly-dressed Gears. "We were thinkin' karaoke." #765 answered her. "I'm game." She replied immediately. One of her favorite off-duty activities. When she was behind that microphone, she could forget it all. She could lose herself in the music. That was what she wanted. She angled for a window seat, leaning her head next to the window, the happy chatter of her fellow Gears blending into a pleasant hum. Time flew by. Before she knew it, they had arrived. "I managed a private room this time. I do remember the chaos from last time." She heard #98078 say as she followed everyone else in. Several of them had been put on disciplinary duties after a fight had erupted the last time they had gone out. As #476 had been right in the thick of it with blood on her hands from handing at least one offensively-acting drunk his ass, she'd been put on her most hated duty: cleaning up after the swans. There was nothing she hated more than those evil birds.

She settled into a seat. "Alright, who's going first?" She asked, not really caring who did. The next several hours seemed to fly by, with everyone getting several turns and several getting progressively drunker. #476 stuck to water. Eventually, they demanded that she end the night. "Oh alright..." She stepped up, flipping through the song list until one jumped out at her. She didn't know if it was appropriate, but it brought back things she wanted to forget, things that needed to be exorcised. So she went for it.

It was a stark contrast to the loud songs that they had chosen all night. A simple, soft beat. It was still the one she wanted. "I can do what I want, I'm in complete control. That's what I tell myself. I've got a mind of my own, I'll be alright alone. Don't need anyone else. I gave myself a good talking-to, no more bein' a fool for you. I remember, how you make me wanna surrender..." In her mind, she wasn't singing to them. She was singing to _him_. "Damn your eyes." _Your eyes, that wink, that little smirk you get when you tease me..._ "For takin' my breath away, for makin' me wanna stay. Damn your eyes, for gettin' my hopes up high, makin' me fall in love again..." _Why did it have to be you? _ _It's not like you'll ever give me the time of day, at least not in that way. There are so many others before me, aren't there? _"Damn your eyes."

She closed her eyes, making sure she didn't cry. _A Gear doesn't cry._ That way, she got through the rest of the song. As everyone filtered out of the room, some with arms slung over the shoulders of others, she was the only one left. _Damn your eyes._ She wiped a hand across her own, then she followed.


	10. Going to Wendy's

Takes place immediately after Dethvanity. I thought Pickles looked like Wendy with that wig on. This eventually resulted from it.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I do own #476, and lay claim to #859 for the purposes of this story.

* * *

#476 stared out the window, drumming her gloved fingertips against the glass. "Are they even open at 4 AM?" She asked. "I have no clue." #859 answered. "Thanks for not holding your tongue, by the way." "Oh, you're very welcome." #476 had not been able to resist comparing a wigged Pickles to Wendy, which had been overheard. That had started this whole mess. Now #476 and #859 were tasked with finding a Wendy's with an open drive-thru solely so that they could bring food back to the Haus. "Over there!" She leaned forward, pointing, then squinted a little. "Wait, that's a Taco Bell." She sat back in her seat. "Would the Masters forget the square hamburgers if we brought them burritos?" She mused. "Maybe if Wendy's isn't open." #859 shrugged.

The intrepid Klokateer duo passed by the Taco Bell, as well as a McDonalds and a Burger King. "Are you sure we can't stop there?" #476 asked as each went by. "No." #859 answered each time. It was several more minutes before #476 blinked, pointing. "OK, that's definitely a Wendy's. It's got the Pippi-looking girl and everything." "It looks closed." "No, there's a light on, I can see it. Pull around." She drummed her fingers again as the car was pulled around, and they stopped at the drive-thru. Both stared at the sign for a minute. "Might as well just get a bag of burgers and fries. Is Master Skwisgaar on that salad kick again?" "Not that I know of." "Alright then. HEY! YOU OPEN?" They were answered by a tired-sounding voice from the intercom. "Yeah, whatcha want?" "Twenty burgers and fries!" There was a pause. "They're going to think we're joking." #476 muttered softly. Sure enough... "Excuse me?" "Listen, I know full well you think we're kidding, but we were ordered here from Mordhaus solely to procure this food, and it'll be our heads if we come back without it." "Wait...Mordhaus? You mean..." "Yeah, that's what we mean, now will we get that food?" Another pause. "Nice work." #476 again muttered. #859 laughed in response.

There were no more hangups after that. With several bags of food on her lap, #476 watched as they passed by darkened buildings. The rosy light of dawn had barely started touching the highest spires of Mordhaus as they pulled back into the garage. "How in the hell am I gonna carry all this?" #476 asked, looking down at her lap. "Gimme some of it." She passed several bags over to #859, enough to be able to maneuver one hand to patch her comm into the Haus intercom system. "Good morning Masters! Your faithful Gears have returned with the spoils of our trip. We will be leaving the Wendy's in the kitchen. Have a good day!" She purposefully made her voice loud and cheery, imitating a morning person solely to annoy. "We'd better get to the kitchen quickly before they decide to hunt me down for that." She commented softly as she turned the comm back to its normal setting. Both hefting bags of food, the two Gears went into the Haus, shutting the door behind them.


	11. Home

Takes place between Black Fire Upon Us and Renovationklok. Everyone knows the Gears were unemployed sometime during that 9 month period. This is some insight as to where #476 turned up.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. I own #476 and Walter the bartender, and lay claim to #1795 for the purposes of this fic.

* * *

"It's almost closing time, Hound." Walter called to the silent woman who stood, arms crossed, by the door. She turned her head towards him, dark eyes focusing on him for a moment, before she nodded. As she waded into the crowd to begin the nightly ritual of enforcing last call on those who would quickly turn belligerent, he regarded her for a moment. She had turned up several months ago, taking the Help Wanted sign from the window and asking if the job was still available. In that time, she had refused to discuss her past, even though the gear brand on her neck showed where she had come from. He was also quite sure Hound wasn't her real name, though it was the only thing she would answer to. He ducked as a body sailed towards the door, passing right through it to hit the ground with a crunch. "Careful there, Hound." He cautioned, though his concern was met with a smile. "He's alright. Didn't even go that far." "You say that every time." "It's true." Privately, that smile unnerved him. He knew she enjoyed it too much. Multiple times he had seen her bandaging her own hands after bloodying her knuckles on someone's face. She never complained.

Soon enough, the bar had emptied, leaving only the two of them. She straddled a bar stool, resting both elbows on the counter. "Just water." She said, as she did every night. Gripping the glass in one hand, she sighed, then took a sip. Normally they'd stay up shooting the figurative shit, but tonight was different. "Think I'm gonna call it early. G'night, Walter." She set the still half-full glass on the counter, then stood, passing the bar on her way to the small room she rented from him. She shut the door behind her, sitting in a small chair she had placed next to the bed. The room was barely furnished. She didn't mind. She had lived in worse conditions. It was quiet. It had taken her months to get used to it being that quiet, without the nocturnal symphony of her fellow Gears to fall asleep to. She buried her head in her hands. The sheer _want_ burned in her chest. She _wanted_ to return to that life, before everything had happened. Before they'd all had to leave. Before the Commander...she couldn't think it. To think it would acknowledge that it happened. To acknowledge that it happened would betray everything she believed in.

Back in the bar, Walter continued the same closing up rituals he had for years. Wash the glasses, wipe down the bar, make sure everything was stocked for the next day. It was the sound of the door opening that caught his attention. He was sure Hound had locked the door after escorting the last straggler out. A hooded person, dressed all in black, stood just within the door. "We're closed!" He called out, thinking they'd take the hint. They didn't. "I need to speak to #476." "No one of that name here." He moved quickly, not for the gun he kept but closer to the back. "I'm not leaving until I do, sir." "Then I know someone who'll make you. HEY HOUND! VISITOR!"

She heard Walter's voice from down the way. She was sure she'd locked the door. She stood, making her way back to the bar. "Yeah, what is..." She stopped, her eyes visibly widening. "#1795!" She rushed forward to engulf the smaller person in a hug. "#476. I knew I'd still find you here." She stepped back. "You're using my number. Does that mean..." "Yes, that is what it means. We're all going home, #476." "Home." As she said it, she surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye. She turned then, regarding Walter. "You've been kind these past few months, letting me stay here. You can keep my last paycheck, and I'll have the rent for this month forwarded here." "You're leaving." "Yes. I'm going home, Walter."

She walked out of his life soon after, faded old bag slung over one shoulder, black cloth mask obscuring her face. Even then, he was sure she was smiling. "Home!" Her jubilant voice called, one last time.


	12. Beginning

Takes place a good while before the series. How #476 came to be. I prob'ly took a few liberties with the Gear process and it's likely not as bloody as people would like. Oh well.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476/Hound is mine, and I lay claim to #1238 and #12190 for the purposes of this story.

* * *

"NEXT!" #1238 barked, already annoyed at the day's assignment. Recruitment Gear. _Feh, glorified babysitter to a bunch of pussies that likely won't make it to the Branding._ The line in front of him slowly moved forward, depositing a girl into the seat in front of the table. #1238 sized her up, then quickly dismissed her. _Fat kid._ He thought, even though she looked more than of age to apply. "Name?" "Uh, my name is..." "Doesn't matter. If you make it through to the Branding, your name will be forgotten. You will be a number, a codename. Just like the rest of us. Why are you applying? And don't give me that 'die for Dethklok' bullshit, or the groupie bullshit. You don't look like the type for either." The nervous look the girl wore faded a little, conviction showing through. "I want something I can believe in, something to fight for. I don't want to just waste away sitting there doing something that's pointless. I want my life to have a little meaning, even if it does lead to a quick death." The girl halfway expected to be rebuked for giving a 'bullshit' answer. It even sounded hokey in her own ears, but it was her reason. She was surprised when the hooded man in front of her nodded. "Good enough. Try to survive, kid." "Thank you...sir." "NEXT!"

For the girl, the weeks that followed were a pure form of hell. Every night, she cupped her head in her hands, wondering just why she was putting herself through this. Every night, she answered the same way. _I want to believe._ Every day, she got up and did it all over again, even as the group of people she had signed up with thinned out. Time blurred together as each day eliminated more and more, until all that was left was a small group. After that, she knew what was coming. The last battle.

They all gathered in a large room, lined on one side with a low stage. #1238 surveyed their movements from this perch. Beneath his hood, his expression was mildly surprised. _The fat kid._ He had expected her to be one of the first to die, yet she had made it to the final stage. "You all know what to do. If you wish to die for the Masters, you must first kill for them. Begin!" With that pronouncement, the room plunged into chaos.

The girl had backed against a wall, surveying the scene. A lifetime ago, she wouldn't have even known to put her back to a wall in case she was attacked from behind. Somewhere along the line, however, she had taken to the training. She dropped into a crouch, one hand against the wall, ready to push herself off. She was patient. She watched the massacre for as long as she could stand, then pushed off the wall. She scooped up a pair of fallen knives, throwing herself into the fray. The blades bit into the unprotected side of a larger man, stunning him for the few seconds she needed to slice him open. "'Ey, whatcha doin there?" She heard from behind her, mere seconds after her target lay bleeding out at her feet. She felt her back open, a blade slicing diagonally down one shoulderblade. _Shit!_ Biting her lip 'til it bled, she wheeled around and launched herself at her attacker, bringing him down. The move earned her several more cuts, but as she fended off his flailing arms and cut his throat, she considered it a small price to pay. By the time the fight was finished, she and the other survivors were liberally splattered with blood - both theirs and not theirs.

"He caught ya good, kid." The infirmary Gear on duty, #12190, said as he surveyed the girl's back. She winced, a breath hissing through gritted teeth, as the needle descended. "I gave it back tenfold." She replied as he sewed the wound up, covering it with a bandage. "Good girl. I want to see ya in the infirmary in a week, got it?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Go get yaself cleaned up." Moving gingerly, the girl joined her fellow survivors in getting cleaned up. The final ceremony was the next day.

_Don't fidget._ She told herself. The stage was higher. They had an audience, a black-clad faceless mass that she would soon join. She was once again nervous as hell and just wanted this to be over with. She listened to everything that was said, then as the music pulsed around them, she knelt. She felt the hood she wore being lifted up along the back of her neck, then the red-hot brand. She reopened her lip in a successful effort not to scream. _Gears don't scream._ Afterwards, she stood with the others, the new brand throbbing as the cloth hood brushed against it, as their voices rung out as one. Their oath, their bond, their word.

"Congratulations, kid." #1238 remarked as he saw the girl again. "Thank you, Sir." "What is your name?" She remembered how he had asked her that the first time. She knew her number, #476. Underneath her hood, an unseen smile pulled at her lips. She'd found her name. "My name is Hound, sir." "Good. Welcome to the Gears, Hound."


	13. Tallulah

To the anonymous who reviewed: OFC is Original Fiction Character, in this case the various Gears in the story.

Takes place just after Beginning. Inspired by watching Tributeklok. Went a bit long.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine, and I claim any other Gear mentioned for the purposes of the fic.

* * *

"And this is what happens every time Master Murderface causes a problem?" #476 asked, eyes a little wide underneath her hood. Upon being welcomed to the Gears, her first assignment had been something called Reconstruction. She hadn't known just what that word had entailed until she'd arrived, fresh for her first day of duty. The slash she had taken to her back was still tender. It would still be several days before the stitches were removed. "Yes, this is what happens." The Reconstruction Gear she had been assigned to, #92799, replied. "If they fail to comply with the Commander's wishes on the matter, they are Reconstructed." "Without anesthesia?" #476 asked, even as she watched her fellow Gears cut into the still-screaming subject. "Without anesthesia. It is to ensure that they do not do it again." #476 paused, continuing to watch, then nodded. "I understand." Even if absolute loyalty and obedience had been drummed into her, as it had into every Gear, she still could not imagine doing anything to warrant that kind of punishment.

That night, she curled up on her side on the tiny cot she had been assigned as a newly-minted Gear. _Another day._ She thought to herself. She wouldn't betray her beliefs or her pride, but she couldn't see herself lasting as a Reconstruction Gear. She would soldier through it until she was able to request a transfer, of course. It would be a while. The next day, she got up and did it all over again. The days proceeded to blur together, punctuated by the mandatory trip to the infirmary to have the stitches removed, and by the completion of her proper Initiation into the society of the Gears. After that, she had inquired about a chance to transfer out of Reconstruction and into another area of the Haus, and was informed that she would have to wait until an opening came up. She was assured that such things happened quickly.

Meanwhile, she continued her work. Each day seemed to get a little easier. "Hold him steady, Gears. Get him into the bindings." #92799 ordered, as #476 and four other Gears hauled in the next subject for Reconstruction. Her grip was tight on the man's arm, even as he tried to flail. Between the five of them, they were able to get him transferred to the table and bound down. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned around to find #2345, the Gear who handled transfers. "#476, I need to speak to you." She followed the older Gear outside the operating area. "An opening has come up within the Lamp Gears. The Commander has approved your transfer. You will start tomorrow." "Understood." She really didn't know much about lamps, or wiring, but she was willing to learn.

"You're the new Gear?" #97, the Gear in charge of the Lamp Gears, asked her as she stood before her. "Yes, ma'am. #476, just transferred from Reconstruction." "Good. I needed a new grunt. You will aid in the upkeep, maintenance, and replacement of lamps and light sources around Mordhaus. Do you have any prior experience in this area?" "No, ma'am, but I am willing to learn." "An inexperienced grunt, but one who wants to learn! Wonderful." The older woman rubbed her hands together. "I think I'm going to like having you around, #476. The other grunts, they aren't as willing to learn. Especially from a woman."

Thus began her apprenticeship. Before long, she could tell that she was resented, but it was only confirmed when #72742 shoved a large shipping box so that it landed directly on her. She woke in the infirmary over a day later. "It's a minor miracle that ya weren't seriously injured." #12190, with whom she was growing quite familiar, remarked. "Will I be able to return to duty?" "Yes, but I'd like to keep ya overnight. Just for observation purposes." The beds in the infirmary were slightly more comfortable than her assigned cot.

The next day, she returned. "Welcome back, #476." #97 greeted her. "Glad to be back, ma'am." She replied, not even looking at the others. She fell back into routine, but it wasn't long before she heard a rumble behind her. She was able to move behind a nearby crate just before #9379023 came through with a forklift. "What in the unholy fuck are you doing?" She came out from behind it, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Oh, sorry...didn't see you there, #476." It was the falsest excuse she'd ever heard, but she had no choice but to accept it.

She was on her way to an assignment #97 had given her when she was shoved from behind, against a wall. "We don't want you here." It was #72742 and #9379023. "We don't like how you're suckin' up to #97 or how she prefers you over us." "I'm sorry. It was not my intent to suck up to anyone. I just want to do my job." "Sorry ain't gonna cut it, bitch." She saw #72742's fist come flying towards her. As she ducked her head, it sailed into the wall. "You said she was defenseless!" #9379023 yelled as he bodily attacked, catching #476 in the side as she tried to dodge. She fell to the ground, the heavier Gear on top of her. She began to flail beneath him, attempting to make each of his heavy blows miss even as she attacked with fists and feet on whatever she could reach. _Damnit._ Time slowed down for her, even as one hand managed to hook itself in her attacker's belt, finding the obvious knife stowed there. She had no choice. With a scream of rage, she buried that blade in his body. Again, and again, and again, until he stilled. Leaving the knife in him, she braced his body with her feet, using every bit of strength to shove him off her. Standing, she threw the now-sodden hood she wore off. Her face was blood-splattered, anger and malice dancing in her dark eyes. Only then did she grasp her borrowed weapon, pulling it from its impromptu sheath. "Come at me, asshole." She directed towards #72742, who seemed to be inching towards a way out. "Oh no you don't!" And she took off after him, intent on ending it.

"You're late, #476. Looks like something happened on the way?" "Yes, it did. Things came to a head. #72742 and #9379023 won't be reporting for duty." "Ah. Those two finally got what was coming to them. Clean up and report back. I have something for you." "Understood." #476 returned to the cramped quarters she shared with everyone else, finding them blissfully empty. She stripped off the blood-splattered uniform, throwing it down into a corner for the Laundry Gears. A quick rinse took the blood off, and she changed into a fresh uniform. She dropped a clean hood over her head. Looking down at the knife she had retained, she rinsed that off as well, then put it under the small pillow she had been assigned. She regretted not confiscating the accompanying sheath from her attacker, but knew she would be able to get one.

"#97, ma'am? I've returned." She said as soon as she entered the room where her superior waited. "Good. Before we tackle what the Commander wanted from us, I want to show you something." She dutifully followed #97 into a room that she had only seen on the initial tour: the armory. "Judging from the state you arrived in, I think it's time you had a weapon of your own." "I already do." "There's no harm in having more than one." "You make a good point, ma'am." "Have at it, #476." She spent several minutes looking over what was offered, before her fingertips alighted upon what she knew to be a cattle prod. "I want this one." She nodded. "Interesting choice. Will she have a name?" "A name?" "Yes. It is good luck to name one's weapon." "I will take that into consideration, ma'am. May I request a spare knife sheath as well?" "You may."

That night, she sat up, the cattle prod resting on her lap. Her new knife, now sheathed, still lay underneath her pillow. She ran her fingertips along the smooth surface of her new weapon, becoming familiar with the contours of it under her hands. She turned it on, caused it to spark, then turned it off. "A name. What is your name?" She asked it, then hmm'd softly. A moment later, a name had sprung to mind. "Tallulah. That's your name. Yes, that's what I'll call you." Her smile was unseen, but it was a pleased smile.


	14. Lovesick

Thanks for the reviews! Pst1993, I'll need to rewatch seasons 1/2, but I should have something up from either or both pretty soon.

This one's a bit racy. Too much lurid mental imagery flitting through my head. Damn you Pickles! I had to be quite careful to skirt this site's ratings policies and imply most of it rather than actually show, but at the same time I felt that including it warranted a bump up in the rating. I know I've seen worse on here, but there's no such thing as being too careful. Takes place several days after the conclusion of Breakupklok, but before Church of the Black Klok. Probably one-sided #476/Pickles, though you never know...

As usual, I don't own anything Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine and mine alone.

* * *

#476 stumbled back to the small room she'd been given on the sub. Her head swam, her inadequate alcohol tolerance (though strengthened by several nightly trips to the bar to drink away her sorrows) managing to act up once more. She'd had too much again. The thought, floating in what small part of her conscious mind that was paying attention, didn't really bother her. She managed to struggle out of her uniform and her boots, leaving on the matching black bra and panties she wore underneath, and laid on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. _You care about me. Is that all it is? All this is?_ Her thoughts were tinged with bitterness, burning her mind like the vodka had burned her insides. It seemed that, for all her efforts to drown out everything she was feeling, the booze had only amplified it instead. Her hands began to move, seemingly of their own accord, fingertips gently tracing lines up and down her exposed skin, lightly scratching a roadmap across her body with her fingernails. _All I could ever want..._ She let her mind run away with itself, focusing more on physical sensation. As it had done every night since they were back in close quarters, it conjured up a fantasy. It wasn't her own hands delving into her most secret places now. Not anymore.

Her back arched, lifting off the small mattress. "Yes, right there..." She breathed the words, too engrossed in the physical sensation and the illusion her mind had created. _You like that, Houndy? _She could almost hear him. "Yeah..." She replied in a whisper. _Good. _Soft pants and gasps passed her lips as her fingertips found just that right spot, her other hand running across the tops of her cloth-covered breasts, fingers just skirting the lacy trim. As her climax hit, she moaned a single name. His name. "Pickles..." In her mind, she was seeing that naughty smirk again. Then it was gone, as it always was, just a figment of a lovesick imagination, replaced by the same guilt and shame that always remained after she finished. It was her punishment for wanting something she knew she very likely couldn't possess, or so she thought.

She fell asleep, curled in a miserable ball around her pillow, her tears still drying upon the soft cotton cloth. Just as she did every night. Unfortunately for her, her dreams once again provided no respite from the incubus she had sworn her life to, her subconscious picking up exactly where her fevered consciousness had left off. She would continue to twitch and writhe during the night, her words - delivered in breathy moans - doubtlessly disturbing whatever neighbors she had. Whatever control she had over what she felt was taken away from her, even in her sleep. He'd gotten the better of her, once again.


	15. Tattoo

Quick little piece to break up all the dark stuff that I've written lately. Self-explanatory: #476 gets a tattoo. Set during the gap between Breakupklok and Church of the Black Klok, after Lovesick.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine and mine alone.

* * *

#476 groaned softly, her head resting on her arms. She lay on her stomach on the table, trying her best to keep herself motionless. Her shirt was balled up on the table next to her. Save for a black strapless bra she had worn specifically for the occasion, she was bare all the way down to her waist. She had heard that this was generally considered rather painful, but having worked up the nerve to actually get it done, she found it to be a rather pleasurable experience. Maybe it was because she was a Gear. Maybe she was becoming a masochist. "Hold still, #476." #38750 admonished her, breaking that weird train of thought. "Or else this is going to be crooked." "Sorry. Got a cramp." "You still wanna get it completely done now?" "Yeah. Cramp can wait." "Alright, if you say so." The vibrating sensation resumed. She found she was beginning to like that sensation. She didn't know how this idea had popped into her head, but it had. Fortunately the sub actually included the needed facility, though she had no idea why it had been included. One of those weird random things, she guessed.

"Still awake, #476?" "Yeah." "It's finished." She felt a strange sense of satisfaction upon hearing those words, as it signalled something she definitely couldn't undo even if she wanted to. "Did you want to get something to cover up that scar too?" #38750 sounded a little too eager for her liking now. "Nope. I'm fond of that one." She carefully moved to a sitting position, noting how the irritation the initial sensation had instilled had given way to a clean sense of pain, though that definitely didn't bother her. #38750 covered the area with a bandage, all the while filling her in on properly caring for her new addition. She carefully slipped her shirt back on, noting where the cloth clung to in case there was a problem. She paid #38750, then left, a bit of a spring in her step.

Hours later, back in the safety of her room with everything she needed, she reached her left hand to her right shoulder, bit her lip, and carefully started peeling the bandage away. She looked over her shoulder, at a small mirror she had carefully placed to catch what she needed to see. A pleased smile curved her lips. It was perfect. After that, she carefully pinned her hair to one side as she began the first night of what she knew would be several weeks of caring for it. She highly doubted that anyone would've expected this from her, but she was beginning to surprise even herself lately.


	16. Five More Minutes

And now, we pass into the realm of possibility. I can't tell you for the life of me when this one takes place. Maybe during season 5. Maybe after the series timeframe. However, the idea took up residence in my head and wouldn't leave. It soon proved to be pretty cute. Definite, definite Pickles/#476 here. Enjoy.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476/Hound is mine. I have also probably taken liberties with Pickles' accent. Please forgive me for that.

* * *

#476 woke to the sun in her eyes. "Ugh." She groaned softly, one hand managing to grab at the clock on the bedside stand. She squinted at it, her still-sleepy mind processing what it said. She set it back down, then turned her head and focused her eyes on her still-sleeping bedmate. She never tired of watching him. She sighed, preparing to heave herself up and out of bed, but was stopped. "Faive more minutes, Houndy..." He pulled her back against him, murmuring into the back of her neck. A spontaneous shudder passed through her body. That was something else she never tired of. "Do you really want the Commander to come looking for us again?" She blushed a little at that memory. "Think we might've traumatized him the last time." Another puff of breath against her neck, this time huffed out in a 'feh' noise. "Feck 'im. I 'membered ta lack th' door this taime."

"Oh, did you now?" Her voice turned coy, teasing. A sly smile curved her lips. Even here, at his mercy, she couldn't resist. "Yep." She felt him moving against her, until she was staring up at him. Their hands laced together. "Want me ta show ya why?" Her dark eyes flashed with mirth. "Am I in any position to refuse?" He laughed, leaning down to bury his face in her neck, nipping at the skin. "No." She shuddered again, a moan escaping from her parted lips. Not that she ever would refuse, of course. She just loved to rile him up, especially here, away from prying eyes. She loved it almost as much as she loved him.

She was certain a lot more than five minutes passed when they finally drew apart, but as she snuggled against him, she didn't particularly care. She was almost asleep once more when she heard a knock on the door. "Uh, Pickles?" She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Yeah?" "You've got a meeting in ten minutes." That 'feh' noise again. "#476? Are you there?" She wanted to feign deafness, but in the end, she had to answer. "Yes, Sir?" "The lamps in my office have stopped working." "I will see to them, Sir." "Good." As she heard the Commander retreat and muffled voices down the hall, she buried her face in his shoulder, stifling a sudden burst of laughter. "Sounds laike Nat'an complainin'. Whait?" "He didn't try the door again." "'Course nat." This time, she did laugh. "Whait?" "Guess we really did traumatize him, didn't we?" "Shoulda known better." For once, she didn't even blush, just continued laughing.


	17. Lunch Room Gossip

Adult Swim is back on reruns, which means more of the earlier seasons! No objections here. This takes place during "Performanceklok". I know the request was for something during my favorite episode (which "Performanceklok" isn't), but this idea popped into my head and demanded to be written out. The plot bunnies should always be heeded, lest they start breeding.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine, and other Gears mentioned are claimed for the purposes of this story.

* * *

"The Masters have displayed a worrying obsession with banana stickers." That had been the topic of conversation in the lunch room ever since Dr. Twinkletits had arrived at the Haus. The banana stickers. They were everywhere. "I've even seen them on the ceiling." #476 raised an unseen eyebrow at #912, who sat across from her. "I don't even wanna know how that happened." "#8598 got stuck with sticker removal duty. He must've spent several hours cursing that psychiatrist out in the process." "I don't blame him. He wasn't in earshot of them, was he?" Privately, #476 didn't see how Twinkletits was actually helping the Masters any. Of course, her opinion hadn't been the thing that had gotten her her job at the Haus, so she kept it to herself. "Fortunately for his sake, no."

#476 sipped her milk through her straw as she continued to listen to #912. The comm she wore beeped then, and she set the now-empty carton down on her tray. "#476 speaking." "Master Toki is complaining that the light in his room is dimming. Meet us there in five minutes." "Understood, #97." As she heard it click off, she shook her head. "Duty calls." "We're still on for tonight's night off, right?" "You know I wouldn't miss it." #476 picked up her tray, throwing the remains of her lunch in the trash before setting it in the nearby receptacle. The walk was one she had taken many times, to the point where she could do it in her sleep. Several times, she almost had. "#476 reporting, #97. What's the issue?" "That." #97 pointed, and #476's mouth dropped open. "Holy shit. No wonder the light's dimming. How in the hell did he manage it?" "I don't think I even want to know that." Every bulb in the room was covered with banana stickers. Only the central light, which #97 had brought in from outside, was bare. "Alright grunts, you know the drill. Unscrew and replace." #476 and the other Lamp Gears nodded. "Understood, ma'am." Each donned a pair of thick gloves and set to the task.

They'd gotten similar calls in several other sectors and rooms immediately afterward, which kept the Lamp Gears busy removing and replacing bulbs. In one instance, the stickers had actually melted onto the bulb itself, prompting a mass facepalm. After every sticker-related lightbulb crisis had been averted, #476 pushed the cart containing the old ones down the hallway towards the trash area. "#476!" She stopped, looking behind her to see #912 racing towards her. "What is it?" "You've gotta come see this!" Not one to miss anything, #476 turned the cart around and followed. Leaving the cart by the door, #476 beheld a mass of her fellow Gears all figuratively glued to the windows. She elbowed her way into a good spot, then squinted, looking down at the ground. "Is that...?" "Yep." "When did this happen?" "Couple minutes ago." #476 turned her head from the scene, looking at #912. Beneath her hood, her expression turned serious. "Anyone get the official timespan?" #912 chuckled. "Three weeks, two days, two hours, and fifteen minutes." At this, #476 swore. "I had a month solid. Who do I have to pay?" "#4312." "Lucky bastard. He's paying tonight."


	18. Mission

What if Salacia did come to power? I don't expect Brendon to end the series on a low note like that, but my musings on the subject produced this pure What If, focusing on the idea of such a Bad End taking place. Consider it an Alternate Universe piece.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. Hound/#476 and any other non-canon characters are mine and mine alone.

* * *

The world had changed. The prophecy had come to pass. Dethklok and the Commander were no more. With their way of life altered so radically, the Gears had split down the middle. Some rejected the change, shedding their Gear identities and calling themselves Remembrancers. Their rebellion had started soon after the self-styled Lord Salacia's rise to power. It ended in bloodshed and tragedy. Others had chosen a different path, to undertake what would soon be known as the Last Exodus. Their last refuge was the Church of the Black Klok, the location of which was kept a secret lest the eyes of their enemy fall upon them. Though Hound had ached to join the Remembrancers in their attempt to take revenge, she had forced herself to undertake the Exodus. When asked why, she had simply said that she had something to live on for.

Her sole regret was that she had never been able to tell Pickles before everything had happened. She was reminded of it every day of the Exodus. _I can only imagine what you would've said. Likely something completely ridiculous that likely would've annoyed me and I'd go to yell at you but you'd give me the puppy dog look and I'd love you all over again._ She chuckled to herself as she took a rest, fingers trailing against the curve of her growing belly as she did so. The chuckle died, turning into a smile as she felt her child move. _Or maybe you would've picked the ever-living hell out of me. Guess I'll never know, will I? _She was disturbed out of her reverie by the voice of #232890. "#476, we're moving on. Need any help?" She waved him on, bracing herself and managing to make it to her feet with her dignity intact.

She gave birth shortly after they had finally arrived. "It's a boy, Hound." She smiled tiredly at the man who brought her her son, then cradled the child in her arms. "Do you have a name for him?" "I have for a while now." It felt like a lifetime ago, but a sacrifice made before everything had gone bad had resonated with her. "His name is Roy." She held her son to her, feeding him for the first time, and couldn't help but get a little teary. _I wish you were here with me._

Life seemed to settle down a little. They still had to be careful, but otherwise it had begun to resemble what it once had been. She watched her little boy grow. He was old enough to play with the other children now. "He looks like his father." She turned, looking at the woman behind her. "It's that easy to tell?" Meaghan, the former #820377, nodded. "The eyes." Hound returned the nod. The two women watched the children play. "I still miss him. Every day. It doesn't get easier, does it?" "I wish it did." Hound turned her head, regarding her fellow former Gear. "Which one?" Meaghan pointed to a little girl, all blonde curls and pink bows. "Ah." She didn't even have to ask. She had seen many blonde children during her time at the Haus, and they all had one source.

She had cultivated friendships among the priesthood, enough to be invited to tea by the current high priest every so often. Ishnifus Meaddle had gone to his rest after the Exodus had arrived. She found his replacement likeable. She furrowed her brow, setting her cup down. "It isn't over?" Dark eyes, still sharp despite their owner having not been on alert for several years, settled on the man across the table. "It isn't over. We've discovered that another piece exists." "Has it been translated, if I may ask?" "Not fully. However, there are several references to children." "Children." This was enough to raise her hackles. The idea of children possibly coming to harm was one she did not like at all. "He is attempting to find every child sired by Dethklok. No doubt the references pertain to them." She frowned. "What are you trying to say, that you need someone to go out there and bring them back?" "Yes." "How many Gears are left?" "Are you saying..." "Yes, that's what I'm saying." "But you..." "He will be alright here." _I know you're watching over him, like you've been watching over me. No harm will come to our son, right? _There was conviction in her voice, in her thoughts. She believed it so wholeheartedly.

She explained it to Roy that night, that she would go away for a while, but when she came back she would bring him more new friends. His keen green eyes bored into her. She realized he knew more than she originally thought he would, but he didn't say anything. _Does he dream? I know the Masters used to dream. Maybe he knew ahead of time._He just nodded, and gave her a hug. Her eyes teared up. "I love you, little man." "I love you too, Mom."

The next morning, she suited up. The familiar feel of the knife sheathed between her shoulderblades reminded her of old times. She pulled her hair back into a braid, then slipped the black hood over her head. #476 had returned. She walked out to where the meeting had been called. "Gears, assemble." The faceless masses were smaller than they had been, but no less at attention. "We have a mission. We are to find and bring back every child sired by the Masters before our enemy can." She expected to hear questions, but received none. "This will not be an easy task. I know many of you have children of your own, as do I. If you wish to back out now, I will understand." No one moved. Underneath her hood, she smiled. Even after several years, they were still ready to die for Dethklok. "We leave immediately."

She was last to board the submarine that would take them back to the surface. She didn't want to leave, but she knew she had to. For her son to have a future, she would need to do this. Maybe protecting the children would lead to ending their enemy's hold on the world. She didn't know for sure. For now, she had her mission.


	19. Animal

Now that I've managed to excise that bit of AUness, it's back to our regularly scheduled timeline. #476 gets to be scary again. Takes place during the fight in "Church of the Black Klok" and in the aftermath. There's even a little bit of Pickles/Hound here, after all the scariness. Time to watch the old episodes again.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476/Hound and any unfamiliar characters are mine.

* * *

Her knives flashed, gutting the first unfamiliar figure she saw. All around her, she could almost sense death's presence, as both friend and foe succumbed. The scent of blood filled her nostrils, the coppery taste trembling upon her tongue. She licked her lips, savoring it. She was not in her right mind. All that was #476 had fled to the darkest recesses, the animal within rushing to the forefront. Rage flamed in her eyes as she fell upon her next target, weapons at the ready.

The hunt was on.

It had not started like this. Like several other Gears, she had wanted to pay her respects to a man who had given his life for the cause. The fact that her Masters had made up only made it better. That had changed completely when the casket had exploded, when their enemies had dared to violate such a sacred occasion to attack them. Several of her fellow Gears had been surprised. They had fallen quickly. Only instinct had saved her, as she had flipped a knife from between her shoulderblades, drawing another from where she had hidden it on her calf and plunging both into the man set to try to decapitate her. She knew she had sustained several injuries, her blood welling to the surface to mingle with that of her foes. She didn't care. Her baser instincts (_FIGHT, PROTECT, KILL_) had taken her over completely. She intended to follow them to the last.

Everything blurred together, grey and black and white and red. At one point, she had lost both knives, hands and teeth carrying on their work. When everything settled down and her humanity came flooding back, even she was shocked at what she had done. Quietly, she retrieved her knives from the puddle they'd ended up in, the movement causing her to wince as sodden fabric scraped across her arm. Pain and exhaustion had replaced adrenaline. As soon as she managed to flick most of the blood from her knives, she stowed them away, then caught the arm of another Gear. "Are they alright?" The question came out as a feral growl. "They took Master Toki and Miss Abigail." A further growl at hearing that Master Toki was gone changed into a more noncommital noise at the mention of Abigail. She could go on all day regarding her opinion of that woman, but she wasn't paid for her opinion. She followed the Gear (who she soon recognized as #93754) back to the sub. "How much of that is yours?" #9573, who had succeeded the long-since-gone #12190 as infirmary head, quizzed her. "Some of it. I know my arm's open, can't tell you where else." #9573 made a noise in her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a 'tsk'. "Get changed. Then I'll look at you." She did as she was told.

Later, after being all stitched up and fairly swathed in bandages, she tried to curl up in the tiny room she had been assigned, but sleep eluded her. Her restlessness drove her into the halls. She leaned upon a railing, ignoring the complaints from her arm, and watched the fish go by. Her attention was so taken that she didn't hear anyone coming. "'Ey." A hand waved in front of her face. "Houndy? Ya 'wake?" She blinked, bringing herself back to reality. "Can't sleep." She turned her head. "I'm a little surprised you're awake." "So 'm I." She turned her eyes back to the window. Silently, he slipped his arms around her from behind. She didn't protest. She never would protest. The strange pair stood together, watching the fish swim by as the sub moved silently through the water. Where they were going, neither of them knew.


	20. Fan Day

I think of Fan Day as resembling the retail world's Black Friday: the one day that every Gear dreads above all others. Takes place during "Mordland".

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine. #1000 is a friend of mine.

* * *

#476 yawned, stretching both arms above her head as she was roused from sleep. Immediately, she was conscious of the buzz in the air. She tilted her head, listening to the chatter of voices. She quickly changed into a clean uniform, then carried her hood in her gloved hands as she began to push through the crowd for breakfast. Munching a slice of toast, she made her way through the crowd again to check what day it was.

"This day again?" She shook her head as she looked at the calendar. She said the same thing every year when that particular day arrived. She disliked Fan Day. It was the one day where everyone's routine was completely disrupted. She didn't like having her routine disrupted. Things needed to get done, and they were spending that time babysitting. "Hey, ease over." She elbowed her way to the duty roster, squinting slightly. "Fuck. Tour guide duty again. Does anyone wanna trade?" No answer. She grumbled as she made her way out of the crowd. She would've even accepted cleanup duty if it meant she was off tour guide duty. People got grabby during Fan Day, and not even the fact that they were allowed to use force to ward off those who were particularly aggressive deterred some. She'd had tour guide duty last year, and her ass had felt like a pincushion by the time the day was over with. She'd also broken seven fingers, three noses, a jaw, and two ribs total in dealing with transgressions. The thing that had really disappointed her was that it wasn't even the record.

She looked out the window, casting an envious eye towards the guard towers. "Damn #1000, always gets the cushy jobs." She rolled her eyes, her words now mock-serious. She'd always found some amusement in accusing #1000 of getting the really good jobs because she worked fairly closely with the Commander. Shaking her head, she straightened her uniform and left for the meet-up with the other guides. She wanted to get the figurative show on the road as soon as possible.

"Ah, good morning, #476." "Morning, #893." She slipped her hood on as she greeted the Gear in charge of tour guide duty. She tried to be patient as she listened to their instructions (which never changed). Finally, they were sent to their assigned positions. "Let the games begin."

It was later, after all the fans had finally vacated, that she'd gotten the lowdown on what had really happened. She gulped down a painkiller, following it with the rest of her glass of water as she was regaled with the usual tales. That had been a bad idea, as she'd nearly done a spittake upon hearing what the latest 'entitled' fans had done. She smacked herself on the chest to make sure all the water went down, then she put her head in her hands, literally shaking with laughter. "Oh for the love of all that's unholy, even the biggest idiot in the universe would think that blackmailing the Commander on our home turf was stupid." She only wished she'd been the one to pull the trigger. She disliked the Big Name Fans who thought they were more important than the fandom. They all needed to be humiliated, in her opinion. "Did they both die?" "Nope. One did, the other's down in the dungeon." "More's the pity. So did anyone come close to the record this year?" She knew she didn't, but the news that the record was still up for grabs was definitely welcome. She glanced out the window. "I'm gonna pack it in and see if I can get a jump on tomorrow's wiring job. #97 gave us the day off for Fan Day, but I don't like leaving it this late." She put her tray away, waving one hand over her shoulder as she left the lunch room, humming that year's fan song under her breath.


	21. Walk Of Shame

A sort-of continuation to "Red, White, and Blonde". The difficulties with chat 'support' mentioned in both actually happened (including the whole 'sent to a search engine' thing, couldn't make that bit of massive stupidity up if I tried), though unlike #476 I was unable to make sure that the incompetent boobs who provide 'support' for EveryWhere Chat met messy ends. Happens after "Prankklok".

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine. #416 and #9055 are friends of mine.

* * *

#476 was bored. So very bored. She had finally heard back from chat 'support', completely contradicting what she'd been originally told. Firmly telling herself that she was not under any circumstances to respond with all the profanity she'd started muttering, she thanked them for their time. As she knew she owed a status report on the matter, she sent an email to the Commander detailing their problems and that the permanent 'solution' that 'support' had sworn up and down would work in fact would not. She gave names, particularly one that had decided that sending her to a search engine was preferable to actually doing what they were s'posed to be doing. A vindictive smile crossed her face as she clicked Send. She loved ensuring messy deaths for people who pissed her off.

Switching figurative gears, she logged on to the Gear message board. "Again?!" She exclaimed, upon entering a topic regarding more fanfiction on the main server. She backtracked and hunted it down. "'#476, #416, #9055, and the night they cleared out the tequila'?!" This time, she was annoyed. She quickly scanned it through, then facepalmed, knowing right off who was behind it once again. She opened another email window, quickly firing off another email, this one going directly to the culprit and expressing her displeasure on the matter. She really did not appreciate a repeat incident, not on her watch. Additionally, there was the matter of the incident being described (and oversexualized) having actually taken place. Of course, she didn't remember much of it, at least not until she'd seen the footage herself. Sure, she remembered passing the tequila bottle around (they'd been instructed to clear the remainder out after the incident with the master record, but not how they were to accomplish it), and she remembered waking up the next day incredibly hungover with a pair of lacy green panties that weren't hers on her head, but not what had happened during their impromptu party. The three of them had gotten the footage erased and the night stricken from the record.

She frowned, reminded of what had happened when she'd gone to retrieve the single copy of the tape. Someone had insisted on a round of Never Have I Ever, and a particularly brain bleach-worthy confession had her draining her glass several times simply to make sure that she wouldn't have nightmares. She'd then gone tearing off after that tape. One thing had led to another, and she'd done the Walk of Shame the very next day. The Walk had gotten as far as the nearest bathroom, where she'd proceeded to utter prayers to the porcelain god as she threw up. It had been a depressing way to spend the day after she'd drunkenly yielded up her virginity, she'd decided. The actual retrieving of the tape had taken place several hours later, when the painkillers had finally kicked in and she'd remembered that it was still there. She'd rolled her eyes as she'd snuck back in and found Master Pickles still asleep, right where she'd left him, half-covered by a blanket, one arm thrown over his face. It only took a few minutes of digging underneath his bed to unearth the tape. Before she left, she allowed herself a moment to just take it all in with a fond glance, then fairly ran off to grab #416 and #9055.

The three of them had derived great pleasure in melting that tape with a blowtorch. It hadn't exactly calmed her uncertain nerves regarding the whole matter, but it had helped.

Her email pinged, drawing her out of her flashback. She opened it, reading it quickly. That vindictive smile returned. Oh yes, she definitely loved that part of her job. She only hoped that their deaths were as painful as her experiences in dealing with them. She logged back in, waiting for the next batch of problems - and hopefully, a proper solution.


	22. Toy Store Brawl

The idea that fighting erupts anywhere there's any Dethklok-related stuff amuses me. Of course, with most items that are highly sought after, fighting happens anyway. I've never been in a fight over stuff like that, and I really don't intend to be. No timeframe regarding the series. Minor (and undetailed) character death.

As usual, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine, and the other Gears in this fic are appropriated for the purposes of the story.

#476 was grumpy. It was the day the official Dethklok action figures were being released. She and a group of other likeminded Gears had taken a trip down to the factory where they had been made, hoping they could score them before they all went out. They had been completely denied. Undeterred, they had redoubled their efforts, donning civilian clothing to blend in with the crowd that had already gathered at a nearby toy store. "I still say we should've reminded them who we are." "If we'd have done that, I would've proceeded to nominate you to explain to the Commander just why that had to happen." "Shut up, they're opening the store." Indeed, the store was opening. At this point, #977 chose to get them all together with a game plan. "OK, as this place is sure to become a bloodbath quickly, get in, secure the prize, and get out by any means necessary. If any of us dies in the attempt, we bring their bodies back and auction off their figures." Each Gear nodded, fully accepting the possibility that they'd end up dying for the sake of action figures. "On three. One..." They could see the unlucky sales associate behind the glass doors. "Two..." The lock was being fiddled with. "Three!" As the doors slid open, each Gear took to their feet, shoving their way into the mass of humanity already crowding through the small opening.

She was fairly sure at least one person had been trampled to death. She could smell blood. Her field of vision was full of people. She flailed her arms, elbowing people out of her way. Finally, she came out into a clear space. "Godfuckingdamnit." She checked her boots, the fluid streaking the soles confirming her suspicion. She lunged towards the long-since-demolished setup, her hands alighting on a packaged set. It disappeared five seconds after she touched it, swept up into a pair of meaty hands. "Too slow, bitch." The voice belonged to a hulking young man almost a foot taller than her. Normally, she would've let it go and looked for another set, but something in her had decided that those were fighting words. "I have had a fucking terrible day. You've just made it worse, asshole." She leapt for the box, both hands grabbing on to the arm holding it. "Let go!" "Hell no." Swinging herself from the arm now dangling her, she drove both knees into the man's side. This was enough to get him to crumple a little. She followed up with a point-blank headbutt, at the same time kicking one foot right into his junk. As he fell to his knees, she extracted the prize from his grasp. Holding it tightly under one arm, she drove her fist into his face. This wasn't exactly necessary at that point, more a sudden need to declare total victory over the neanderthal that had pushed her over the edge. Her breath came out in small, hissing gasps, pain searing through her hand from the point of contact. She had broken something, possibly more than one something. At the same time, she noted that hers hadn't been the only violent actions taken. Toys were scattered as far as the eye could see, some of them covered in blood and other fluids that she really didn't want to think about at this point.

She clutched the box of figures close to her chest, giving a death glare to anyone who even strayed close to her as she bodily pushed back out of the store. It was only when she reached the parking lot, now brightly lit with ambulances and news crews, that she allowed herself to stop, catch her breath. She lifted her free hand, wiping a trickle of blood from her opened-up forehead. "Stupid asshole." Slowly, their group reassembled, each similarly bloodied and bruised, but triumphant. #476 did a quick headcount, then frowned. "Where is #19927?" "Someone go back in." It was minutes later that #977 returned, the still figure of #19927 slung over his shoulders, another box tucked under one arm. "How in the hell are we going to explain to the Commander that one of us got killed for a box of action figures?" "You are aware we've died for stupider things than action figures, right?" "Good point. Load 'em up."

Later, they convened in the break room. The auction of the #19927 memorial action figures had been a success, and the figures belonging to the still-living members of their intrepid group had already been secreted away where they wouldn't be stolen easily. "Turn on the news!" "I'm watching this, why?" "They're covering the toy store brawl!" Amid the arguing back and forth, the channel was changed. "Did any of us get on camera?" "Why ask that?" "I want to have plausible deniability." #476, by now bandaged, her hand set and in a cast, shook her head. "They only filmed the aftermath. I'm sure the Commander already knows we were there by now." "Good point." As the coverage finally showed the full extent of the damage, #977 whistled. "Holy shit. Was that..." "No, that wasn't just us. Everyone was going at it." When the feature came to a close, the channel was changed back to what it had been on prior. "Never again. Next time we order them off the Internet." "Damn right."


	23. Perfect Tour Lighting

Tour drabble to get back into #476's mindset. She takes lighting _very_ seriously.

As always, I don't own Metalocalypse or any canon characters. #476 is mine, and all other Gears mentioned are claimed for the purposes of this story.

* * *

_I always find myself in these situations_. #476, suspended several hundred feet above the ground by her ankles, sighed to herself. The rush of blood in her ears reminded her that she couldn't stay upside down for very long, and the faint shine of the stage below reminded her what awaited should her already precarious positioning give way. _The things I do..._ One hand held a screwdriver, the other tilted one of the stage lights so that she could reach the complicated nest of screws that held the metal base to the ceiling frame. She could feel how loose it was, the slightest movement of her hand causing it to rock back and forth. The last thing they needed was for another light to drop during a show. That was how they'd lost #785937. "There you are." She held tight, quickly maneuvering the screwdriver to tighten the offending screws, then gave the light a tap with her free hand. "You'll hold now." Carefully tucking the screwdriver into her belt, she carefully bent her body so she could grip the frame she hung from with her hands, releasing her feet from the spaces she'd wedged them into and quickly pulling herself up onto it. She tapped her ever-present earpiece to make sure it was still there, then quickly pressed buttons on the accompanying unit. "Sir, the ceiling lights are all secure." "Good. Climb down and check the rest." "Understood." She reached into another spot on her belt, pulling out her hood and slipping it back on. She took a deep breath, then swung herself onto the portion of the frame that served as a ladder and began the climb down.

She hummed softly as her hands caressed the larger metal casing of one of the spotlights. Removing her hands from it in preparation, she tapped her comm again to reach the lighting truck. "#21436 here, whatcha want?" "Turn on spotlight #7 for me, please." "Gotcha." She looked up from the light, gaze moving along the trail it illuminated upon the stage up to the large spot on the back wall. Donning extra-thick gloves, she placed both hands upon it and braced herself, pressing against it to turn it. She hmm'd as the spot moved, then continued to move it until it reached the angle she desired. "#21436, could you turn on #8 as well?" As the second lit up, she adjusted the one she was working on further, then squinted a little before growling. "Turn them both off now." She couldn't hide her irritation. Nobody had told her that #7 had started to dim. She stalked off towards the supply truck, intent on procuring a replacement lightbulb.

It had been quite a while since she'd been on the tour loop. The Gears of both her divisions had ganged up on her, saying that tour duty would be a much-needed (or so they claimed) break from the Haus for her. She suspected that what they really meant was that they'd get a break from her. She knew she'd not been the best person to work under. Quite frankly, she'd been a bitch to them for several weeks. She'd have to try to make it up to them. "Oi, #90284!" She knew making as much noise as possible would alert the older Gear manning the supply truck. "You don't 'ave ta yell, #476." He sounded as irritated as she felt. "Need a new spotlight bulb, you know how Master Nathan freaks out if they're not bright enough." "Ya, I know." She could hear him rummaging around. "We still got 'em?" "'Old ya 'orses already. 'Ere it is." She took the box he offered. "Thanks." "No prob." Turning on one heel, she went back to the stage.

_Everything has to be perfect._ She had checked the other lights while waiting for #7 to cool down completely, finding no major problems. Now she knelt next to it, carefully removing the dim bulb from the casing and setting it down next to her. _Nothing can go wrong._ Reverently, she lifted the new bulb from its box. _Otherwise I'll never hear the end of it._ She fitted the new bulb in, adjusting the casing to grip it as tight as it could. She needed it to hold it steady. She got back in touch with the lighting truck to check, then nodded. It would be perfect.


End file.
